


Problem?  What Problem?

by Pimento



Series: Feelings Catalogue [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bobby's House, Canon Divergent, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Sam Ships It, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Smut, Supportive Bobby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 02:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6637978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows on from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5267288/chapters/12153995">The Problem</a> and will probably make more sense if you read that first.</p><p>He understood the why now, Raphael had alluded to it, he was infected with humanity, more specifically he was infected by Dean. That long, painful flight to escape from perdition, had left them, soul and grace, intrinsically, inescapably entwined, forever bound by the link forged in the crucible of hell. And being a little bit human meant needing sleep and having feelings, whereas being a little bit Dean Winchester, necessarily meant being a bit shit at accepting, showing or expressing anything remotely like emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fear and Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows on from [The Problem](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5267288/chapters/12153995) and will probably make more sense if you read that first.
> 
> Set during Season 5 before the Winchesters properly understand their role in the apocalypse, but Lucifer is on the loose.
> 
> “Screw you,” Castiel said, channelling a near perfect impression of Dean.
> 
> “Delightful,” Raphael said quietly, “You’ve even caught potty mouth, from the hairless ape boy. Still I suppose it beats syphilis.”

“Hello Castiel,” a deep voice, spoke to him from the darkness.

He span round sharply. “Raphael.”

The two angels stood face to face, as Raphael moved into the light. “You can’t hide in your own head forever, Castiel. We will find you, and your pets, and when we do… well…”

“Screw you,” Castiel said, channelling a near perfect impression of Dean. Hiding in his own head?

“Delightful,” Raphael said quietly, “You’ve even caught potty mouth, from the hairless ape boy. Still I suppose it beats syphilis.”

Castiel’s deep blue eyes blazed with a hatred he never thought he could feel towards a brother. He regretted every kill, mourned every death, but Raphael, if he could sink his angel blade deep into that loathsome snake, he would be glad for the rest of his time. 

“It’s mutual Castiel. You disgust me. You are a traitor and a heretic. I see your desires and your disgusting longings, your vile dreams. True angels do not sleep and dream. You’ve become infected with humanity, whoring yourself and pining like some ridiculous romantic heroine after that murderous trash.”

“He is more honourable, brave and loyal than you could ever be,” Cas shouted. “He sacrifices everything for family and to do the right thing. He is the righteous man, chosen by our father…”

Raphael cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand. “Oh Castiel, our father...please! But you keep telling yourself that, if you like. You cannot fight me Castiel, I am an archangel. I will find you, I will remind you of your loyalties and then? Then, I will let you beg me to end their pitiful little lives yourself.”

Castiel finally lost it, the reassuring weight of his angel blade dropping smoothly from his sleeve into his hand, he threw himself at Raphael. But the archangel swirled away, disintegrating and vanishing into a wreath of smoke.

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

Castiel blinked. He was lay on the cot at Bobby’s. Moonlight flowed through the window. The shadows of the symbols, sigils and protective markers painted on the panes of glass stretched across the blanket which lay over him and down onto the threadbare rugs scattered across the dark stained wooden floor. He sat up, stiffly. His head felt vaguely spongy, and he used his hands to press against the sensation of pain in his temples.

His sudden movement disturbed Dean, who was sprawling in an armchair, heavy boots peeking from under a loosely draped blanket. The rug rucked up under the chair legs where it had been dragged across the floor to face the cot. Castiel’s brow furrowed with puzzlement. He tried to read Dean’s face, as he closed the gap between them and began pushing Cas gently back down onto the cot.

“Cas,” the normally gruff voice broke slightly, and he sounded mightily relieved. Dean cleared his throat and tried again. “Steady there, Jessica Jones, you’ve been out for three days. How you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” Cas replied, eyes darting from Dean’s face to glance around him to the room beyond. They were alone. There was no threat here. He lay back slowly, as Dean plumped pillows behind him and settled him back. “Everything hurts.”

“That just proves you’re alive," Dean chuckled. He squeezed the shoulder under his hand, as though he was reassuring himself that Cas was real. "Jeez, it’s good to have you back, buddy. We thought we lost you for a while there.” He rummaged in his duffel, tucked under the edge of the cot, and put three large pills into Cas’ hand.

“Lost me?” Cas felt utterly disoriented. He stared at the pills, looking back up at Dean who was watching him expectantly. He seemed to be having dreams. Angels don’t sleep, much less dream, and yet he seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time unconscious just lately. He was no longer sure what was real and what was dream. He blushed as he thought about the cabin in the woods. Did it happen? No, it couldn’t, be real. Raphael had told him, he had read his disgusting longings, seen his dreams. Only Dean wasn’t disgusting. He was the Righteous Man, he was brave and noble and ... beautiful.

He realised Dean was still speaking. “…five of them surrounding you like that. You gotta stop taking on every mook in Christendom on your own. We’re a team remember.”

“Team Free Will,” Cas responded automatically, nodding. He was still watching Dean’s face warily.

“Take the pills, Cas. They’ll help. You took quite a pounding before we could get to you.” He swallowed them obediently, more for Dean’s benefit than his own, as he suspected that they would barely touch him. Dean pursed his lips and squatted on the side of the bed. He sighed. “What is it, Cas?”

“I was unconscious? For three days?”

“Yeah, Cas, out for the count." Dean closed his eyes briefly and swallowed hard. "When I saw that bastard drop you, I thought…” Dean stopped. He looked at the puzzled look on Cas' face. “You don’t remember any of this do you?”

“I’m not sure,” Cas said slowly, he grabbed at Dean’s arm, fingers closing round it tightly, needing the contact. Fear, he realised, his catalogue of feelings, clicking into place in his mind, he was afraid. It was not a pleasant emotion. “I…I don’t know what’s real. Angels don’t sleep and we don’t dream. I can’t seem to separate what has happened, from what I want to happen, or what I fear will happen.”

Dean’s face flickered with something Cas could not read. His free hand dropped onto the fingers gripping his arm, and his thumb smoothed over the back of the tightened knuckles. It was strangely comforting, Cas thought, warm and soothing. He felt himself relax slightly, realising how rigid and tense his vessel was. “You’re safe here, Cas. Rest. You don’t have to sleep if you don’t want to, but if you do, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

His eyelids began to feel heavy, and he listened to the gentle background noises of Bobby’s house, his angelic senses picking up the sound of insects and bugs in the house, and the gentle hum of the refrigerator. He closed his eyes and felt himself sinking into the cot. It seemed to be swallowing him. He fought the sensation briefly, until he felt the rough thumb gently smoothing his hand once more, and he allowed himself to drift.

****************************************************************************************************************************************

Dean waited until Cas’ breathing softened into sleep, before gently prising Cas fingers from his sleeve. He walked softly to the kitchen, the light from the refrigerator casting his bowlegged shadow across the floor as he opened it. He grabbed himself a beer, and jumped slightly as Sam appeared the other side of the door. Wordlessly the offer of a beer was made and accepted, and the two brothers sat quietly at the kitchen table.

“How is he?” Sam asked quietly.

“In all honesty,” Dean replied softly, “I’m not at all sure. I think he’s afraid.”

Sam tongued his own cheek, looking at Dean questioningly. “I know, I know," Dean shook his head and shrugged. "It doesn’t make much sense to me either, but he seems genuinely scared, and all this sleeping...? You said it yourself, angels don’t sleep.” Dean stood up a little stiffly, and began stretching his back, which gave an ominous couple of clicks as he twisted his shoulders.

“He is cut off from heaven, maybe it’s messing with his mojo,” Sam reasoned.

“Well, whatever it is, I don’t like it.” Dean grumbled. “He’s one of our only assets.”

“Yeah, like that’s the only reason you’re bothered.” Dean swigged at his beer, buying himself time before he needed to reply, but Sam was in no mood to cut his dumbass brother any slack. “You can’t mess him around Dean. Hell, he’s already isolated and cut off from everything he once held sacred…”

“All right, Sammy,” Dean growled. “He matters, we all know he matters, Ok.”

“Just make sure _he knows_ he matters.”

“I will,” Dean growled. “But I’ll do it my way…and at the moment, we have an apocalypse to prevent in case you’ve forgotten and that has to be our only priority, and for that we all need Cas fighting fit and firing on all cylinders, without distractions.”

******************************************************************************************************************* 

Cas lay quietly listening to the world around him. Being unconscious – sleeping – was all new. It had seemed absolutely terrifying to Cas, things could happen while you were asleep. Anything or anyone could attack you. He found it utterly freakish, and he had not understood why it was happening, or what he could do to prevent it.

He understood the why now, Raphael had alluded to it, he was infected with humanity, more specifically he was infected by Dean. That long, painful flight to escape from perdition, had left them, soul and grace, intrinsically, inescapably entwined, forever bound by the link forged in the crucible of hell. And being a little bit human meant needing sleep and having feelings, whereas being a little bit Dean Winchester, necessarily meant being a bit shit at accepting, showing or expressing anything remotely like emotions.

Somewhat reluctantly, he opened his eyes, he was still on the cot at Bobby’s and he looked across to check. Dean was still slouched awkwardly in the chair. It was a strange reversal to be watched by Dean. He felt a subtle flutter in his chest and a warm feeling flowed through him, culminating in a soft sigh. Gratitude, he realised, filing it away, as the need to sleep overtook him again and he gave in to it.


	2. The Spare Room

Bobby felt vaguely guilty. He hadn’t handled the whole business of finding Cas half undressed on Dean’s bed particularly well. To be fair to him, it had come as quite a shock, but looking back the signs had been there all along. 

He loved these two boys better than if they were his own. He had had a huge hand in raising them, and despite their occasional whining and some breathtakingly stupid behaviours, he was damn proud of them. Regardless of anything and everything, he was damn proud of them. Still he’d over reacted, been gruff and growled, and bitched about them using his spare room, so yeah, he had good reason to feel guilty about how he’d behaved those two short months ago, but things had moved on apace since then, and still he hadn’t had chance to clear the air with Dean… or with Cas.

It was two weeks now since the series of garbled calls about Cas arriving battered and bleeding in their motel room, and then being chased by storms and the mad race to the safe house. Two weeks since Sam had arrived back here, saying that Dean and Cas needed time alone, and a week since Dean had returned, quieter and calmer than normal. Seemingly soothed by his ‘timeout’.

And then the catastrophe. A routine lead, that was anything but routine. A simple reconnaissance that had damn near turned into a blood bath. His boys arriving back in the Impala, three days ago, with an unconscious angel and enough nicks, bruises and slashes between them to empty three first aid kits and use up most of his normally endless supply of suture thread.

Dean had spent those three days hovering around Cas, refusing to leave further than the bathroom or the kitchen, but mostly sitting in that damn chair, either watching Cas, or propped up sleeping. The boy was frazzled. The black bags under his eyes evidence of just how damned tired he was, but still he wouldn’t allow Bobby or Sam to spell him for more than the five minutes it took him to grab food, drink or a quick trip to the john. He wasn’t even drinking, apart from the occasional beer. Whatever this relationship was, Dean had it bad.

So come hell or high-water, Bobby was going to make sure that whatever ‘it’ was, Dean got the rest he needed, and he suspected to do that he was gonna have to make sure that the dumb kid knew that he was OK with this fledgling relationship, whatever form it took.

 

“Son?” Dean barely even jumped when a heavy hand fell on his knee, but his vision swam into focus on Bobby’s face. “Son, why don’t you go get some proper R&R.”

Dean cleared his throat. “I was…” he stretched and cracked his neck “…getting plenty of shut-eye till someone started groping my leg.”

“Don’t get smart with me, idjut. You know damn well what I mean. Go get your four hours, nuttins gonna happen to Cas in four short hours, and if he wakes, I’ll fetch ya.” Dean _was_ desperately exhausted, but he couldn’t… wouldn’t… leave his post watching over Cas, and he couldn’t explain why to himself, much less to Bobby, because he didn’t properly understand it, he just knew he had to be there.

Bobby sighed and his face softened. “If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain,” he muttered. Dean squinted at him in confusion, eyes barely focussing. “Sam,” Bobby shouted, “Come here kiddo, I need a lift.”

 

“Aw,” Sam said softly, as he and Bobby gazed through the door of the spare room at the two sleeping men on the double bed, “so cute.”

“Demon cuts and wendigo scratches I can patch, but I ain’t gonna be able to fix the damage your brother would do if he heard you.” 

“He’s out Bobby. They both are, but what happened to ‘not in your spare room’?”

“Where else would they sleep? There isn’t another double in the house,” Bobby growled. Sam smirked at him and dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Shut up, ya idjut and help me back downstairs. We’ve got work to do.”

Sam glanced back over his shoulder and pulled the door shut. Dean, who had heard the whole exchange as he drifted comfortably towards sleep, smiled and opened his eyes briefly to look at Cas’ profile as the door clicked shut. Cas looked relaxed, his face smooth and peaceful, his breathing steady. Reassured, he finally gave in and let himself rest.


	3. Morning problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP morning misbehaviour...

The world came back in stages, he discovered. First he started to hear the gentle scratchings and shifting noises of the house, and someone's steady breathing. He thought at first it might be his own, but then he realised that he could feel things and his own chest was rising and falling at a discordant harmony with the sound.

A gentle but persistent weight in all his muscles, and a specific, but equally gentle weight across the muscles of his stomach caused him a momentary confusion, as he felt he could not move, but then his muscles began to reawaken into gentle tingling, and he wriggled his fingers and toes. There was a warmth on his left side, and on his stomach that was not there on his right, and the hair behind his ear rifled gently in time to the rhythm of that steady breathing. He could feel a soft warm breeze across his ear. It was cosy and comforting. 

Lazily, he opened his eyes, and found himself staring at an unfamiliar pattern of cracks across greying paintwork. He was not where he had been when he closed his eyes, but a cautious look told him, he was in Bobby's spare room, the bed was decidedly more comfortable than the cot downstairs, he remembered its spongy feeling from many months ago, when he had experimented with lying down, he remembered lying on this very bed, remembered the aftermath. He felt a curious growth of warmth from his cheeks, and realised he was blushing again. Embarrassment and vulnerability clicked into place. He squirmed. He felt the shift, felt the prickling heat, and oddly pleasurable constriction in his shorts. 

All sense of comfort and cozyness was gone, he allowed his head to fall back onto the pillow, and screwed his eyes shut. This could only get worse if… and yes, he heard the stuttered sound of Dean’s breathing catching in his throat as he awoke. It just got worse. 

 

He was smiling before he opened his eyes, Cas was lay next to him warm and safe and alive. Very alive, he blinked, feeling the gentle prod on his lower arm … yup… definitely his angel had a severe case of morning wood. He smirked, opening his eyes and seeing the blush high on the normally pale cheeks. He moved his head slightly and nuzzled the pink neck, kissing and nipping a deep bruise into the soft flesh, enjoying the gasp of surprise.

He lapped the darkening patch with the tip of his tongue, and mumbled something incoherent against the soft skin. The rigid body under his arm, began to relax a little and he allowed his hand to drift down under the blankets to palm Cas’ erection through the soft white cotton of his shorts. 

He crooked his elbow, and rested his head on his hand, the better to see Cas’ reaction and he wasn’t disappointed. Cas was staring at the ceiling, eyes wide and slightly wild, the glance he flicked at Dean was like the blue flash of a kingfishers wing. Seeing only a cocky grin, Cas slid his eyes uncertainly in Dean’s direction for a longer look, just as a shaft of morning sunlight beamed through the crack in the dusty curtains, and the blue of his gaze intensified as his pupils contracted in the sudden brilliance. To Cas, Dean appeared to have developed a halo, as the sunlight glinted off his dirty blonde hair, he looked like a pre-raphaelite painting, with the light rays radiating from behind him.

“Morning babe,” Dean drawled. “When you’re awake,” he squeezed gently for emphasis, making a lie of the angelic impression, “you’re certainly awake.” 

Cas moaned slightly, and rocked into Dean’s hand despite himself. Dean felt his own desire cranking up, as the crooked little white teeth pinched the softly imperfect pink lips, blanching them as Cas bit back the noise. He leant forward, brushing their lips together as softly as he could manage. Enjoying the tease.

He drew back, and Cas blinked at his sudden absence. “It was real?” Cas murmured, and began to smile, until his lips froze and the soft swelling in his chest that he recognised as a little surge of happiness stilled… “or is this a dream?” he asked his voice breaking.

“Does this feel like a dream?” Dean asked, shifting his hand inside the cotton, and rubbing his thumb through the precum, using it to massage around the tip of Cas’ problem. The no that escaped was strangled and lost in a groan, as Dean closed his fist and slid down the length in a swift practised motion, that had Cas bucking helplessly from the bed. 

“Don’t you remember teasing me? I promised I’d get my own back. And I can do this all day…”

Cas whined, clutching the sheets into tight fists, and Dean laughed at his own lie. The noises that emanated from Cas, were not conducive to holding back and prolonging matters, he could already feel the warm dampness in his own sweats. He wondered briefly where Bobby and Sam were, but strangely he didn’t care. Both had given their approval (not that it was needed, however welcome it was) last night, when they had respectively cajoled Dean and carried Cas to the spare room.

If he hadn’t been so damned exhausted he might have resisted Bobby’s steady insistence that he needed a more comfortable sleeping spot and he might not have trailed meekly behind Sam as he effortlessly threw Cas over his shoulder, lugged him upstairs and dropped him onto the bed. His brother’s upper body strength was reaching faintly ridiculous levels. He might even have fought Sam when he threw a t and sweats at him and told him “go to bed, jerk”. Then again, did he really need an excuse to resist this anymore? Those who’s opinion mattered to him had given their tacit approval, and the rest of the world, heaven and hell… could just suck it up.

He turned his attention back to Cas. If he carried on making noises like this, Dean thought he might just go over the edge before they had chance to properly enjoy each other. The sunlight made the profile sharper, the familiar face cut into sharp angles reminding him of a marble statue he had seen as a child on a rare museum trip with one of his many schools. He felt suddenly awestruck, he was hand fucking an angel of the lord, a creature older than the Earth itself. Then Cas turned his head and the look of adoration and lust in eyes bluer than the clearest summer sky pushed everything else aside and for a moment he forgot to breathe.

 

Sam looked up from his breakfast as Bobby entered the room, in search of coffee. They had both heard the tell-tale sounds of movement from upstairs. “Do you think…?” Sam started.

Bobby rolled his eyes, and in response Sam dropped his spoon into his oatmeal and neatly caught the keys that were lobbed to him across the room.

 

Dean heard the house door slam. He reluctantly let go of Cas and paddled to peer between the curtains. Sam was slamming shut the passenger door of Bobby’s beat up van, before jumping behind the wheel. An engine sputtered to life, and they were alone. He shook his head. Way to be subtle, guys, he thought sarcastically.

Cas rolled awkwardly onto his side, not really quite sure what to do. His face was flushed with arousal, the dark mop of hair stuck up in all directions from days of sleeping, eyes watching Dean with a combination of need and wariness, that had Dean’s stomach tying itself into knots. 

“Do I get a special place in heaven for services rendered, or a special place in hell for besmirching an angel?” Dean thought idly amusing himself as he climbed back into the bed.


End file.
